The Hanging
by hezzel
Summary: Standing at the gallows, Mr. Darcy reflects on his life.


_**Author's note:**_ for those of you who are reading this because you liked _Following the Phoenix_: please be aware that this story is not rational fiction. It is simply the result of reading some existing P&P fanfictions, and finding myself in a writing mood.

(As it happens, I have found that my writing muse comes mostly when I am in gloomy moods - which is quite unfortunate, since (a) that doesn't happen so often, and (b) it does have a particular effect on the themes of the stories that come out. Still, if you don't mind angst, I hope you enjoy the story!)

Also: I am aware that I am ignorant on regency era customs, and there will probably be some historical inaccuracies in this. If you see any that are easy to repair, please PM me; otherwise let's just pretend this is a fantasy world for the sake of the story. :)

* * *

Fitzwilliam Darcy stepped out into the sunlight one last time.

It was not a very nice day: the sky was overcast, and the weather quite chilly for a September afternoon. But it wasn't raining, the sun could be seen through the clouds, and the wind swept through his hair lightly. It would have to be enough.

The crowd was vast – of course it was. He might not be a peer of the realm, but it was still rare to see a man of his rank and wealth so reduced. Not because men like him didn't break the law, of course. But they rarely did so in front of half a dozen witnesses.

*** * * FLASHBACK: 1 month ago * * ***

Darcy ascended the stairs in the seedy inn two steps at a time. This was the place his helpers had finally, _finally_ found for him. First floor, third door on the right.

It was late; almost certainly too late to save Lydia Bennet's reputation even if she did marry. Yet, there might be some solutions – money opened many doors which would otherwise be closed. The first thing to do, however, was to recover the girl.

It had been a long week. When he had come to London, he had first visited Mrs. Younge, hoping that she would have information. Unfortunately, she did not; she had been adamant that Wickham had not called on her for some months, and given the amounts of money that he had offered her to break her silence, he had little reason to doubt her. So instead, he had been forced to rely on the help of his servants and what connections they could bring in. Finally, one of his footmen had heard from his betrothed that her gambling brother had regularly seen a man of Wickham's description; a lead that his men could follow to trace the scoundrel's whereabouts at last. He shuddered to think of how many people had been involved in the search. It would be hard to cover up.

He pounded on the door.

There were noises inside, but no immediate response. He pounded again. "George Wickham, open up!'"

Finally, the door opened. Before him stood George Wickham, half-clad, a stench of alcohol on his breath.

"Darcy? What are _you_ doing here?"

Darcy pushed him inside. "Where is she?"

Wickham blinked in confusion. "Lydia? Why the hell should you care?"

"My reasons are my own," he hissed. "Where. Is she?"

"Oho!" Wickham exclaimed with a delighted gleam in his eyes. "_Elizabeth._ I _thought_ that I saw some interest there."

"Do not presume –"

"She is delicious, is she not?" Wickham continued, his tone taunting. "Pretty, spirited, funny... Did she ever tell you just how much she hates you? I hope she did." He must have seen something in Darcy's eyes, for he suddenly took a step back and grabbed a sabre from the table. "Stay away from me."

Darcy balled his fists, taking a few moments to compose himself. It would not do to lash out at the man in anger. Wickham wasn't worth the argument. He might well be dangerous, though. Darcy cast his eyes around and fished a poker from the top of the fireplace. He did not particularly want to get assaulted by a drunken soldier with a sword.

"I am taking the girl with me," he spoke, when he trusted himself to do so. "Now. Where is she?"

"In the bedroom," Wickham shrugged. "And she is free to go, you know. Although of course, if you take her away now I can hardly marry her." His lips curled in a smirk. "Then again, I can vouch that she will be an _admirable_ prostitute."

Darcy shook with rage. "You never had any intention to marry the poor girl."

"Oh, perhaps. Perhaps not. It might not be so bad, you know – she is almost as pretty as Elizabeth, and not quite so bothered with propriety." He raised his eyebrows. "Although of course, a man must have something to live on, especially when he has a wife to support... I wonder how much the respectability of your _dear_ Lizzy is really worth to you?"

A loud sob sounded to the right; and there, in a doorway he had walked past without paying attention, stood Lydia Bennet, dismay plain on her face. He did not know how much she had heard, but any of that would be enough to make it clear what kind of man she had trusted her life to.

If it wasn't clear to her already. She looked horrible. A bruise blackened her left eye, and one of her cheeks was red. Her night clothes were ripped in places, and she looked positively bedraggled. Had she started to suspect what George Wickham was? Almost certainly. But while she could not be sure, while she might be fooled into believing that he would yet marry her, he had a hold over her.

It was almost impossible to stop his hatred from overflowing, both at the man's words and the visage before him. Looking at the battered and broken woman, Darcy didn't see foolish and improper Lydia Bennet; he saw an innocent child, seduced to the clutches of a mercenary man. He saw the line of Wickham's victims he had known; shopkeepers' and tentants' daughters mostly, all very young, and many left with child when he was done with them. He saw Georgiana, as she could so easily have ended up if he had just been one day late that fateful summer. He saw Elizabeth, so similar indeed to her sister in outside looks, but with the light deadened in her eyes as Wickham had succeeded his seduction of her.

He saw red.

Afterwards, he could not quite recall what happened next. He knew only that he sprang forward, intent on punching the man in the jaw. But when the white-hot rage retreated he was being pulled away, the poker wrested from his now-unresisting grip as Miss Lydia screamed and screamed, and Wickham lay before him in a bloody heap on the ground.

The witnesses had a more complete tale to tell, as he would learn later. A group of young men renting a pair of rooms down the hall, they had overheard some of the argument and looked in through the open door, only to see the gentleman pouncing on the poorer figure, bashing the sword aside and striking the drunkard with the metal rod. After the first blow, the victim had dropped his sword, but three more blows followed before one of them thought to interfere.

Even then, he might have have had a chance to flee; he was not known in this part of town, and he could have taken Miss Lydia with him. But the thought honestly didn't occur to him. He just stood and stared in shock as Wickham bled out despite the men's best efforts to save him. When at last the constable came to take him in, he went along without any resistance.

*** * * END FLASHBACK * * ***

The gentle rays of the sun touched his skin, and he took a deep breath, savouring the outside air. There was preciously little time left.

But for all that he wasn't exactly in a rush, there was no benefit to stalling. Being dragged to his fate would only serve to increase the humiliation and further sink the Darcy name. No. He would not do that. Instead, he held his head high and stepped forward without hesitation, ascending the wooden steps of the scaffold without being prompted.

From the higher viewpoint, he could easily see over the crowd. The more prominent figures of society stood off to one side. Among them, he saw his family: the Earl and Lady Matlock with their eldest son, and Lady Catherine de Bourgh. Not Georgiana, thank Heavens. Colonel Fitzwilliam was keeping her away in his parents' house. He had said his goodbyes to them yesterday and pressed his sister not to come. It was bad enough that she had visited his trial; she should not have to witness this.

*** * * FLASBACK: 2 weeks ago * * ***

"No. I never intended to kill him. It was a moment of... I was overcome by rage, I lost my self-control. I may have bottled up my anger at him for too long, but I swear to God that I never _meant_ to harm him, let alone take his life!"

"Then why did you seek him out in the first place? Why were you in his chambers, holding a weapon?"

"The poker was merely in self-defence – he had threatened me with a sword, so I took up the nearest suitable item to rebuff him should _he_ attack. I had sought him out to recover Miss Lydia Bennet."

"Why? Why did his business concern you? You are not related to Miss Bennet."

He took a deep breath. "I had intended to be."

"In what sense?"

"I had hoped that she would become my sister. I have asked Miss Elizabeth Bennet to be my wife... although I had not yet secured her father's consent."

It was a deception, even if not a direct lie, but one that Mr. Gardiner had ardently pressed him to make. His avowed motive – taking responsibility for Wickham's actions as he had not revealed the man's depravities earlier – could not but be suspect given the circumstances. The true motive of his heart – to spare pain to a low-born woman he had not even been courting – would appear irrational, and might affect her reputation. Mr. Gardiner had argued with him, and urged him to claim an understanding with his niece. His certainty that Elizabeth would not object, and the observation that Mr. Bennet had all the excuse he needed to refuse consent, had finally forced Darcy to agree. Pretending an understanding with Elizabeth would cast his actions in the least reprehensible light and if that would limit the world's censure of his person, he had to do it – for Georgiana's sake if not his own.

"I would like to point out," his lawyer spoke, "that the interference was appropriate, and my client's anger more than warranted. As Miss Lydia Bennet has testified, George Wickham abducted her against her will, and beat her to force her compliance to his unwanted advances. On seeing his sister-to-be like that, it is no great surprise that Mr. Darcy lost his self-control."

Ah yes. Miss Lydia's testimony. It hadn't occurred to anyone to interrogate the girl until well after she had been returned to her aunt and uncle's house. There, he was sure, they had settled on this story together.

Mr. Darcy strongly doubted the veracity of the claim of force – Wickham was not _that_ violent a man, and his charm would easily suffice on such a young and foolish woman as Miss Lydia Bennet – but he did not contradict it. The deception helped his case, and more importantly, it would allow the family to preserve what little of Lydia's reputation could be saved. If she was considered blameless in the affair she would still be ruined, as her virtue had undeniably been taken, but at least her family would not be considered responsible. Her sisters would not share completely in her ruin. That, at least, was something to be grateful for.

"And yet," the judge spoke sternly. "He should not have taken the law into his own hands."

"No," Darcy conceded quietly. "I should not have."

"Is this all your defence, Mr. Darcy? That you did not mean to do it, but were provoked into anger?"

Darcy swallowed. "Yes, sir."

"Then," the judge spoke gravely, "I hereby sentence you to death by hanging."

In the audience Georgiana started screaming, but Darcy just stood still, his head bowed. It was not unexpected; he had taken a man's life, and it was only just that his own life should be forfeit in repayment.

*** * * END FLASHBACK * * ***

In the following days, Darcy had set his affairs in order. For all that he'd been sentenced to death, his fortune had been left untouched, and he had been able to set aside the money to discharge all of Wickham's debts. The man would likely not have repaid his creditors, but Darcy's actions had made it impossible altogether, so he would satisfy them. He had also settled a generous sum on Miss Lydia, for her own support and that of the child she might bear. After due consideration, he had even signed some of his longer-term investments over to Miss Elizabeth; after dragging her name into the proceedings as he had, the least he could do was increase her dowry. She could easily keep the fortune a secret until she had need of it, so it would not provoke unwarranted conclusions from the neighbourhood. But if his actions _did_ cause her harm, or if her sister's fall did, then she would at least have something to live on.

The rest, of course, he left to his sister, to be managed by colonel Fitzwilliam until her marriage or twenty-first birthday. Her reputation had been materially damaged by his disgrace, but at least as the heiress of Pemberley, her eligibility could not suffer _that_ much. True, she was unlikely to marry a peer, but there were many good men of only slightly lower rank – second sons especially – who would not be diverted.

And now here he was. In just a few minutes, he would meet his maker, and be asked to justify his life.

Fitzwilliam Darcy was afraid.

It was a theological issue that he had contemplated at length, and debated more than once at Cambridge: while the bible certainly condoned the death penalty, there seemed to be a deep moral problem with taking someone who had just committed a grievous sin, and denying them any chance of redemption. Now, that argument was painfully real. He had committed the ultimate sin, and he could accept that the price was his life; but what would be the repercussions to his soul?

Half a year ago, he would not have doubted where the balance of his life fell. Even if the same situation had occurred, he would have believed himself to have some leeway, shameful though the thought now was. He was a liberal landlord and master, gave generously where he saw a need, and he always made sure that his business investments were ethically sound. And yet...

_Your arrogance, your conceit, and your selfish disdain of the feelings of others..._

Those words, once he had allowed their justice, had forced him to reevaluate his picture of himself. He had good principles, yes, but he followed them in pride and conceit. It was duty rather than empathy which guided him. Could an act of charity still be counted as such when its primary motive was a selfish desire to honour his father's example, even when he did not share his father's heart?

_It is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to pass into Heaven._ He had done his duty, true. When he heard of an evil, he would take measures to counteract it. But he rarely placed himself into a position where he would hear.

There was so much more that he could have done.

*** * * FLASHBACK: 4 months ago * * ***

"If I may say something impolitic, Sir," the man on the opposite side of the billiards table observed. "You seem like a very amiable man – far more so than I was led to believe."

After weeks of torment, Darcy had taken the decision to work on improving himself. He had lost Elizabeth's good opinion, likely forever – but at least he could try to be the kind of man a truly worthy woman like she could esteem.

And that was why he had allowed himself to be drawn into conversation by a man of modest fortune and smaller consequence; a former tradesman who had retired some years earlier to live a simple life off his savings. He had been pleasantly surprised by the conversation, as Mr. King turned out to be a fairly sensible man, and had not refused a game of billiards after they had drunk some brandies in larger company.

"Where did your report come from?" Darcy questioned, not wishing to let the silence stretch.

"Hertforshire. My older brother lives there, and his daughter keeps up a regular communication with my wife."

"I see." Darcy considered how best to respond. "I confess I was not at my best when I was in the neighbourhood." He could not say more. He wasn't going to make excuses.

"That is not the..." He hesitated. "Forgive me, Sir, but would you allow me to be indelicate, for the sake of my family?"

Darcy raised an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued. "Very well."

The man took a deep breath. "My niece is... in the last few months, she has been courted by a young man of little means. Her father has asked for my advice as the match would not be the most prudent one with regards to fortune, but he is inclined to allow it. The reason being, he admires the man's character, and does not wish to deny his daughter's hope to follow her heart." Here, he paused, looking intently at Darcy. "This man has laid some very specific charges at your doorstep. My brother saw no reason to disbelieve these claims, but... well, after speaking to you..."

After Elizabeth's accusations, he could easily see where this was going. "George Wickham."

"Indeed Sir." The man looked slightly awkward. "Was he... I suppose you know what he said?"

Darcy considered his answer. In truth, he should be angry; the man _was_ prying into his personal affairs. It was quite audacious of him to ask his social superior to defend himself! But then, he was doing so in the service of his niece. A foolish girl, to be sure – to be swayed by Wickham's flattery into believing his words... but then, so had Georgiana, and Miss Elizabeth too.

Why exactly had he considered it beneath himself to expose Wickham's character to his victims?

"What, precisely, has he accused me of?" He asked.

"Supposedly you denied him a living that your father desired him to have..." the man looked awkward. "Forgive me. It is apparently well-known in the area where she lives, but I wonder whether there is more to this tale?"

Nothing unexpected, then, after Miss Elizabeth's accusations.

"Did he mention the three thousand pounds he was given in lieu of the preferment?" He asked, knowing full well what the answer was. "Or his own declaration that he would never take orders?"

Mr. King took a sharp breath. "No, I am quite certain he forgot to mention that part."

Should he say more? Darcy was not one to spread rumours – not even true ones – but in this case a warning for his new acquaintance's family's sake did not seem inappropriate.

"I must confess that I was relieved at his declaration," he added, weighing his words carefully. "For he does not have the character of a clergyman. You might want to suggest to your brother that an inquiry as to gambling debts may be appropriate – or indeed, one into his dalliances with tradesmen's daughters."

"Indeed," Mr. King breathed. "I will suggest it, Sir. In fact, I will make sure to get Mary away from that man post haste. Thank you, Sir. My family will be forever in your debt."

*** * * END FLASHBACK * * ***

In hindsight, it had been an eye-opening experience. Two hours of condescension – most of that time rather agreeably engaged – had saved a young woman from a miserable life. How many more opportunities to do good had he missed because he would not trouble himself to talk to people? How many people would not trust him because he had casually offended them? And why had he not cared about giving people pain in the first place?

From that moment on, he had truly endeavoured to be better. He had tried to be less dismissive of people in general – and found that, while there were no further surprises like Mr. King, some of the people he had previously considered to be beneath his notice were well worth knowing. He had also started paying more personal attention to his business partners, meeting the tradesmen in less formal contexts and having broader discussions. This had led to a much deeper understanding of both their personal lives and their business practices and aspirations. He had learned of an ambitious plan that could improve the lives of many poor people as well as bring a decent profit, and sponsored the project. But to his dismay, he had also learned that despite his efforts at ethical investments, some of the businesses he supported _did_ contribute to slavery, or exploitation in his own country.

Of course he had divested from those businesses immediately, but necessarily, some damage had already been done in the years he had been unaware. Thus, his negligence had caused real harm to people, probably ruined or ended lives; to what extent was impossible to say. To be fair, his other investments had – hopefully – improved some lives. But even so, the knowledge that his money might have been used to pay someone to kidnap innocent strangers in a distant land, and force them to work on a plantation... it was sobering indeed.

And it was not just strangers who had suffered from his arrogance. He had always thought himself to be a good friend; he was loyal to a fault, and where they needed assistance, advice or even blunt feedback he would supply it. Yet, the way he had treated Bingley was abominable – and perhaps even more so Jane Bennet. Again, a large share of the fault lay in his unwillingness to just _talk_ to people; if only he had spoken to Miss Bennet he might not have misjudged her. By all accounts, she appeared to be a well-bred, intelligent woman; she was the sister of the woman he loved, and the love of a man he was close to as a brother – he _should_ have at least tried to know her character. Why had he not?

_I can answer this without applying to him. It is because he will not give himself the trouble._

Because he did not enjoy speaking to people he had avoided a deeper acquaintance; yet without knowing her he _had_ been prepared to judge her, and had continued to act on that grievous presumption without a thought of the possibility that he was wrong.

He glanced at the audience, where Bingley stood, his face sombre. At least he _hoped_ that he had managed to correct that error. He could only pray that he had not made it worse.

*** * * FLASHBACK: 1 day ago * * ***

"I just cannot believe it!" Charles Bingley cried, pacing through the cell. He had been allowed to join Darcy there for an hour, to say their goodbyes in relative privacy.

"I confess," Darcy said quietly, "that this is not exactly how I expected things to turn out either." As Bingley remained silent, he added: "I have been trying to suppress my feelings for a long time, Bingley. I would not have believed myself capable of such an action, but I fear the dam broke at the worst possible moment."

Bingley nodded, and took a deep breath. "But even so. I cannot believe that you couldn't get out of – of _this_." He gestured at the walls of the cell.

"I killed a man, Bingley," Darcy pointed out hollowly. "I pummeled him to death with a poker, with witnesses to spare."

"And from all I hear he deserved it! The man was due for the gallows for what he did – men of a lower station than mine have done much worse than what you have, and gotten away with it. We both know that the courts treat the rich very differently than they do the poor, wrong though that might be."

Darcy laughed humourlessly. "Would you have had me bribe the judge?

"Are you telling me that you didn't even _try_?"

"I will not support the law where my tenants are concerned and subvert it for my own crimes. I have _some_ principles left."

"God damn it, Darcy." Bingley was almost in tears now. "You and your god damn honour."

"You do not understand, Bingley." He paused, facing the wall. "You see only the outcome. You do not know what it is like to kill a man – to see him bleed out on the floor before you, knowing that _you did that_. I pray that you will never know."

There was silence between them, for a while.

"Why?" Bingley finally asked. "Why did you go and chase after Wickham and Miss Lydia? I cannot believe you were truly engaged to Miss Elizabeth. I would have known."

"I was not," Darcy confessed. "But I did wish to spare her pain, and save her respectability – and her sisters'."

Bingley looked at him, searching his face. "You love her," he concluded, with no small hint of wonder.

Darcy did not reply.

"When you spoke to me last winter," Bingley asked carefully, "warning me to not marry into the Bennets... you were not just speaking of myself, were you?"

Darcy shook his head. "I was not."

Bingley smiled sadly. "I never knew. Why did you not ask me to come with you?"

Darcy glanced at his friend's face. "I had no idea that you would want to."

"Of course I would want to."

_He still cares._ Bingley had _seemed_ to be over his infatuation with Miss Bennet, but Darcy had begun to doubt when he witnessed the man's interactions with Miss Elizabeth. He had planned to take Bingley back to Netherfield in the autumn, to judge whether there was still a chance for the couple and then – if the tender feelings on Miss Bennet's side were not lost, if Bingley would not be needlessly hurt – confess his interference.

But all that was impossible now. He could explain his knowledge, but he would not be able to help; Bingley would have to rely on his own judgement. It might be for the best. Darcy had a letter written to give to his friend on their final goodbye; he could not bear for Bingley to despise him now, when they would never have a chance to reconcile. But in this moment, he felt shame for the plan. His friend had the right to hear this directly from his mouth. Darcy was not a coward.

"Bingley, I have a confession to make." He turned to face the wall. He could not look his friend in the eyes right now. "One that might rightly make you hate me, and perhaps even give you some satisfaction in seeing me hang tomorrow."

"_What?_ I could never –"

"I was mistaken about Miss Bennet's lack of affection for you."

Bingley cut off mid-protest. As the silence stretched, Darcy turned around. His friend wore a look of wide-eyed shock.

"I swear I did not know," Darcy offered quietly. "I had looked at her most carefully, and by impartial observation was convinced that her heart was not touched. But it seems that I deceived myself."

"How –"

"When I visited my aunt my in Kent, Miss Elizabeth was in the neighbourhood. She – we had a row. She accused me of many things, most of them just. One of them was that my interference had left her sister broken-hearted."

"Broken-hearted?" Bingley gasped. He sank down on the bench. "So... she _did_ love me... and I left without so much as a word," he reflected hollowly. "I did not even say goodbye."

"I am not certain how far her affections were engaged," Darcy cautioned. "I do not recall Miss Elizabeth's exact words. Only that she spoke of disappointed hopes."

"That is more than enough. I should have –" he blinked. "Wait a moment. You visited your aunt in _April_. All this time you have known, and you didn't tell me?"

"My own heart was broken at the time. That is hardly an excuse, but I was distracted – I did not see that you still suffered. I did not even suspect until I saw you speak to Miss Elizabeth in Lambton..." He sighed. "I thought that your heart had moved past the attraction. And hers might have as well – I have no idea. To tell you would only have brought you pain."

"You should have told me regardless!"

"What would you have done?"

"I would have gone to Longbourn on the instant, thrown myself at her feet and begged for her forgiveness!"

Darcy shook his head sadly. "It seems that I have vastly overestimated my talents at understanding other people's feelings, if I could not even discern yours."

Bingley sighed deeply. "Of all times to tell me this, Darcy..."

He took a deep breath, gathering his courage. "This is not the only thing I have kept from you."

Bingley did not respond, just eyed him warily.

"Miss Bennet spent the winter with her relations in town. Your sisters were aware of it, as was I, since she exchanged visits with Caroline."

He had never seen Bingley truly angry, but now, as the man flew to his feet with balled fists, he closed his eyes and braced for the punch that he knew he sorely deserved. But it did not come. Instead, when he opened his eyes again Bingley had sank bank down onto the bench, a horrible expression on his face. Darcy stood helplessly by as his friend's tears started to fall.

"But then – she _followed me_ – or at least she had no plans before – and Caroline – and _you_ – how could – she must have thought – I am a horrible cad." He lifted his tear-stricken face up to Darcy. "How could you? _How could you?_ You do not even _like_ Caroline, and yet you conspire with her to ruin my life?"

Darcy winced at the vehemence behind the words. "You would have felt obliged to call on her, and I feared that seeing her again would reignite an infatuation better forgotten. I know that that is not an excuse, merely an explanation. It was an intolerable presumption on my part. You have every right to despise me."

Bingley did not respond, and Darcy felt the knot in his stomach tighten. He had _hoped_ that he would not lose his friend, but it seemed that his offenses had been too grave even for Bingley's forgiving temper.

"I do not believe your hopes are ruined," he continued on to break the silence. "Miss Elizabeth did not speak of any new suitors. No one will think it strange if you return to Netherfield for the hunting season. And – I realise that it would be improper to ask, but I am certain Miss Elizabeth will not mind giving you her honest opinion of her sister's feelings and what you must do to make amends."

"I hurt her so much..."

"Not by design, and with her mother's meddling I daresay she will not be able to avoid being left alone to hear your explanation. I give you leave to lay the blame squarely at my feet – where it belongs. Miss Elizabeth will confirm my culpability when asked, I am sure."

Bingley nodded, sitting in silence for a while.

"Thank you," he spoke eventually. "For telling me all this."

"I owed you the truth."

"That you did." He considered for a few moments longer.

"Darcy, I am angry with you. Your actions may have cost me a great deal, and even in the best possible outcome, they have already caused a lot of needless pain. But please know that I understand why you did it, and that I forgive you."

Darcy drew a sharp breath. "That is more than I deserve."

"Yes, well." Bingley smiled unhappily. "This is hardly the time to hold on to resentment."

"I confess it would have been hard to lose your friendship in our final meeting on this earth."

"Yet you risked it."

"Your happiness is more important than your friendship to me."

Bingley nodded. "And that is why you will always be my friend."

*** * * END FLASHBACK * * ***

Bingley had forgiven him, but he could not be satisfied with his conduct himself. Through his pride he had needlessly hurt people over and over; through his neglect and ignorance, he had done real harm on more than one occasion, perhaps cost lives. No, he had many causes for self-reproach. He had tried to make amends – after Elizabeth had shown him how unworthy he was, he had tried to be a better man. But would the work of half a year be enough to compensate for the failures of twenty?

Darcy gazed back up at the sky. Ultimately, all his self-recriminations paled in comparison to his one final act of anger. Wickham had been a plague throughout the second half of his his life, and worst in the last year: seducing Georgiana, maligning his character in Hertforshire, poisoning Elizabeth against him and making any respectable marriage between them impossible through his actions towards Miss Lydia. But had he retained the use of his senses, Darcy would never have chosen for his father's godson to die. Even if some small, treasonous part of him could not help but be a little relieved that Wickham could not endanger other young women any longer, he could never have wished for this outcome.

He pushed the thoughts away. There was no point in speculating on his fate – he would find out soon enough. Instead, he just let the sunlight fall on his face, breathed the air, and treasured the time he had left.

He only realised that the clergyman standing beside him had started speaking when the man stopped. It was almost time. Darcy forced himself not to shiver as the noose was laid over his neck.

But when the executioner pulled the thick rope tight – uncomfortably so – there was a choked sob to the right which almost made him lose his composure.

Could it be? Darcy's eyes roved over the audience. There were solemn gazes, and more than a few gleeful ones, but not –

_There!_ She was dressed in servants' clothing, but it was unmistakably her. She was gazing up at him with a look of anguish, her uncle's hand on her shoulder as he stood behind her in a similar disguise. And her face was wet with tears.

He caught her eyes, and she looked back at him, holding his gaze. Those eyes – there was no sparkle in them now, only desolation, but they pierced through him all the same. He didn't know why she had come, but she was here, and she was crying for him.

To this right, the executioner was saying something. "– final words?"

"I am sorry," he spoke, not taking his eyes off Elizabeth. He was addressing her more than the clergyman. "For... everything."

"That," the executioner said, "is what Her Majesty hoped you would say."

And, to gasps of the crowd, he untightened the noose and removed it from Darcy's neck.

Darcy turned sharply, shocked, as the man took an official-looking paper from one of his pockets, and read:

"As you have shown true remorse in both word and deed since your sentence, Her Majesty the Queen has issued a pardon for your life."

Darcy could scarcely comprehend the words, even as both cheers and booing burst out in the crowd.

"Your sentence is commuted to a lifelong banishment from British soil, and a fifty thousand pound fine. Her Majesty –" the executioner's words continued to wash over him, but he only listened with half ear. If he were to believe the speech, his decision to pay Wickham's creditors had been construed as an act of remorse, and his actions were seen in a better light when Wickham had been posthumously declared guilty of both desertion and rape. Those things may have played a role, Darcy knew, but he had no illusion that they were the only cause. He glanced at his uncle, who smiled gently but did not look too surprised. The earl of Matlock must have laid down a great deal of money to bring this about.

He was ashamed. Ashamed that his wealth, status and position had bought him out of justice after all. Ashamed that he was feeling relieved for it. His eyes found Elizabeth's again. She was looking up at him, her tears still falling but her face now radiant with joy. He drank her in. He would never see her again, but she was here now, and she was glad that he would live. She cared. And that would have to be enough.

* * *

He would be shipped on the morrow.

Canada was to be his destination, and a bleak life lay in his future. After the funds he had given to Miss Lydia and Wickham's creditors, he did not have much in the way of liquid funds left, and what there was would be needed as fallback funds for Pemberley. To pay his fine, Georgiana had had to give up her thirty thousand pound dowry, and his family had bought up most of his remaining investments. That was enough, but there was preciously little left for him. He would have to start a new life from almost nothing; away from his country, his family and friends, and everything he had known all his life.

But at the same time, he could not but be grateful. He had been given a second chance – a chance to make up for his mistakes, a chance to redeem himself. He might not have much money, but he did have a good education, and even in Canada he had _some_ connections from his prior investments who might support him. He would never be a landowner again, but perhaps a tradesman, or involving himself in the running of a factory? There would be many opportunities to do good in such a life.

No, Fitzwilliam Darcy would not pity himself. He had his life, and he would make the best of it.

There was the clang of a door nearby, and then voices. His heart skipped a beat as he recognised one of them. She had come to see him? Here?

His stomach clenched as the voices drew nearer. It was her, without a doubt. There was no escape; he would have to face her. He feared it, even as his chest filled with longing at the same time. He did want to see her. But he did not want her to see him like this, not with bars between them.

Yet, the choice was not in his hands. There was a light pattering of feet, and then she was before him. He stood up, and almost unconsciously grasped the bars.

For long moments, the silence stretched between them. She was as beautiful as ever. But he did not know how long she had been given; he had to say _something_.

"Miss Bennet." It was easiest, to fall back to formality. "I fear that I owe you an apology. I should not have implied an understanding between us. I did not wish to involve your name, but –"

"My uncle pressed you, I know." She gave him an intent look. "And since that might well have saved your life, I am deeply grateful to him." She smiled. "Besides, my uncle told me your exact words. You did not speak any lie."

He shook his head. "I might as well have. I lied in essentials."

"You did not. If you had asked again, before I read Jane's letter... I would not have denied you, I think."

For a moment, his heart stopped.

"I do not know whether I would have accepted you immediately," she continued quietly. "I was so confused. I did not understand my own feelings – not until I saw you standing there at the gallows and you looked at me, and I suddenly knew that I should never love again."

His chest ached. "Love?" He whispered.

She nodded, tears glistening in her eyes. "I love you, Fitzwilliam Darcy. With all my heart I love you. If you still desire it, I would be proud to call myself your wife."

He could not help it. The words made his heart soar with joy, even as his stomach clenched at the comprehension of what he had lost.

_Too late, too late, too late._

He closed his eyes at the pain that threatened to overwhelm him. "It is too late now. I have nothing left to offer you. What is more, you deserve to be with a good man. I have forfeited any claim to that name."

She shook her head. "It may be hard for you to accept this now, Mr. Darcy, but one act of anger does not cancel out all the good that you have done in the world. I cannot condone what you did, but I do understand it, and I cannot say whether I would not have acted the same had I been in your place."

He could not agree, but it was pointless to argue. "No matter. I will spend the rest of my life atoning for this deed."

"I know," she said quietly. "For that is who you are."

A silence fell between him, until she spoke again.

"What are you going to do?"

"I am not certain yet. I have a little money, and some acquaintances in Canada who might help me establish myself. I will try to find a good position, where I can help other people."

She nodded. "Take me with you."

"You cannot mean that."

"You asked to marry me once before. I was a fool at the time, but my uncle said you had hoped to ask me again. Do it now. This may be our final chance."

He hesitated, but only for a few seconds. While it tore at his heart, he knew he must refuse.

"No, Miss Bennet. I cannot support you. I do not even know where and how I will live – I could not bear it if you suffered for my sake, or if you came to harm because I am in no position to protect you."

"The investments you put in my name –"

"They will not bring up any money for many years yet, and while I think they will sustain you in the long run, it is hard to predict how far they will go. If you sold them now, you could not live off that here, let alone in a different country where you have no friends."

"Then I will wait until you are ready to support me."

He shook his head. "I cannot ask that of you."

"I know. You are too great a man to ask me for what you would consider a sacrifice, even if I do not. That is why I did not wait for your request, and offer this by my own choice."

"Miss Bennet... even if I manage to establish myself, even if everything goes right – I will still be a murderer, and there will always be people who know that. I will not be considered a gentleman. Even if I could afford to keep a wife in comfort, I would not be your equal. You would be materially lowered by allying yourself with me."

"We were never equals. If you were prepared to sacrifice your standing for my sake, why should I not do the same when the situation is reversed? What care I for the approbation of society?"

"Miss Bennet... _Elizabeth_..."

"I am _quite_ decided, Mr. Darcy. I shall wait."

For her sake, he should refuse, but he found that he could not. Her words had lifted hope in his heart; a tiny beacon of light in a world that had turned to darkness so suddenly.

And then her lips found his, through the bars. The kiss was soft, and gentle, and far too short to sustain him for the years to come.

Footsteps sounded nearby, and Elizabeth pulled away. Then she drew a note out of her reticule and slipped it to him. It was Mr. Gardiner's address.

"Write to my uncle. He will pass on your messages to me."

He nodded mutely, as she briefly touched his cheek. Then the guard returned, and she was led away. Before she turned the corner, she sent him one last look, a soft smile on her face.

* * *

Alone in his cell, Darcy contemplated the life ahead. For all that she had given her word, he still could not know whether they would meet again. It would be many years, if ever, before he could support a wife; many years, too, before her investments would allow her to support herself or to make such a journey. Anything could happen in such a time, and no matter how strong her sentiments may be now, it was not unlikely that those feelings would change, especially if she met a better prospect.

And yet, Darcy realised that his heart felt light. He had thought that he had lost her forever after his disastrous proposal at Hunsford; now, for the first time in months, he could allow himself to hope. She loved him. The years before him were bleak, and he had a long, dark path to tread towards redemption. But at last he could believe that life would turn out well in the end.

* * *

_From thee Eliza, I must go, and from my native shore:_  
_The cruel fates between us throw a boundless ocean's roar;_  
_But boundless oceans, roaring wide between my Love and me,_  
_They never, never can divide my heart and soul from thee._  
– Robert Burns, 1786

* * *

**Author's note:** the above poem was stolen from a P&P fanfiction I once read where Darcy and Elizabeth quoted Burns to each other (unfortunately I cannot find it anymore to properly cite it). I thought it was quite fitting here, too. :)


End file.
